


Stitches

by Teethteethteethteethteethteethteeth



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo 2020 (Part One!) [15]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Okay Ending, Whump, a bit gory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teethteethteethteethteethteethteeth/pseuds/Teethteethteethteethteethteethteeth
Summary: Ouch.
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo 2020 (Part One!) [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767937
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	Stitches

His hands are shaking. His hands are shaking so damn bad, and he really needs them to _not_ , because he needs to drive this fucking needle through his skin before he bleeds out and dies, because that's what fucking happens when you're out on a run alone, and you get shot in the fucking stomach and you can't keep it together long enough to sew yourself back together. 

Oh, shit. He's supposed to, like, clean the shit out of the wound first, right? He doesn't know. But he starts picking out the stitches he's managed so far anyways, because there's all sorts of shit in his stomach from the damn blaster wound. It wasn't a pure laser shot, he doesn't think, probably one of those modded ones that's got those capsules of glass that break apart on impact, 'cause there's shards of _something_ in him, and it hurts like hell to dig them out. But he does it, screaming out incoherent curses as he does, the burning pain amplified by movement. Who the hell decided it was a good idea to put fucking glass in a laser gun? It's pretty fucked up, if you think about it. Kobra doesn't really think about it, though, brain too full of white-hot pain dancing spots across his field of vision as he picks each little piece out with his fingers. He should've left his nails long, it would have made this easier. But that's less hygienic, right? His hands are fucking dirty anyways, with sand and blood and who knows what else. He'll just have to deal. And he's gotta clean the wound now, too. He vaguely remembers lessons in the Battery on emergency first-aid. You're not supposed to use alcohol on a wound like this, he thinks, but it's better to do that than risk infection? So he pours the last of the medkit's rubbing alcohol onto his stomach, and the pain hits him like a fucking semitruck, taking his breath away before he has the chance to scream, to react. He curls up on his side, and now there's fucking sand in his wound again, but he barely registers that beneath the _pain_ , he's _writhing_ on the ground and letting out little gurgles that ought to be screams but they're not because he cant catch his fucking breath. Kobra blacks out. 

And he comes back what feels like seconds later, only the sun's lower in the sky than it was before and his head's pounding like nothing else, and he still has to pick up the damn needle and put himself back together. So he pours his drinking water out to wash away the sand, and his hands are still shaking, but he does what he has to and he pulls the needle through his skin, dragging it through the clinging wetness of blood and tissue, wiping his skin clean with the hem of his shirt as he goes. Not all of the blaster wound is fixed with stitches, though; the burns spread across his stomach, and the best he can do for them is to wrap himself up with all the clean bandages he can spare, hands shaking harder now, almost too hard to hold the roll of gauze. But he manages. Because that's what killjoys do. They piece themselves back together after every hit, and stand up with a bloody fucking grin, ready for the next beatdown. Kobra's sick of it. But he wouldn't live any other way, not if he could _do something_ , fight back against the fucking corporation. So he hauls himself up on unsteady legs, and he stumbles to his bike, and drives off towards home, ready to fucking fight another day. Or die another day.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like it? Did you hate it? Let me know below!  
> And come find me on tumblr @wishiwasthemoon-tonight


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